


no greater gift

by heartunsettledsoul



Series: Forgotten Moments [28]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Mild Smut, S5 Canon Divergence, and then end with absolute fluff, brief betty/glenn, i have a lot of feelings about toffee cooper, we start very melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29477553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartunsettledsoul/pseuds/heartunsettledsoul
Summary: “She’s usually a real skittish one,” he tells her. “It’s been hard to get anyone to consider adopting her when she won’t come out of a hiding spot.” He looks at Betty, hopeful and a bit insistent.Half an hour later, Betty has signed paperwork and is on her way to pick up a TripCar to take Toffee home.Once she heard the cat’s name, Betty folded in an instant.or, a Toffee Cooper appreciation fic
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Series: Forgotten Moments [28]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/840687
Comments: 41
Kudos: 178





	no greater gift

**Author's Note:**

> none of us are surprised, let's be real.

_“What greater gift than the love of a cat.” — Charles Dickens_

* * *

  
  


Betty hadn’t expected the move from New Haven to DC to be such a culture shock to her social life. While she wouldn’t say she _thrived_ at school in that department, she had good friends from the Daily News, was tight-knit with her housemates, and could always find someone in her group to go out for drinks or dinner with her when she wasn’t being her typical homebody self. 

DC and Quantico were an entirely different story. Betty’s fellow recruits are cordial at best, passive aggressive at worst; they _are_ competing against each other, for all intents and purposes, so it didn’t necessarily surprise her. 

A couple of Yale acquaintances made the locale switch alongside her, but the life of a Capitol Hill staffer is worlds away from that of an FBI trainee. Their schedules never align, and Betty sinks into the pattern of training to her apartment and her apartment to training and, sometimes, to the grocery store. 

It is unbearably lonely. 

Betty hasn’t felt so alone since that awful, deadly silent summer between high school graduation and her first semester at Yale. 

Training includes mandatory, regular psych evaluations and while it is more clinical than therapeutic—simply to assure none of the recruits are cracking under the pressure—Dr. Starling is always kind to Betty. 

“Are you sleeping alright, Betty?” she asks. 

Betty shrugs. 

“Try getting some fresh air,” Starling suggests. Betty scrunches her face; they are outside all the time for physical training. She clarifies, “Spend time outside _not_ at Quantico, Betty. Learn the city a little bit.” 

Sick of being told what to do as she may be, on one of her rare days off, Betty takes a walk around her neighborhood. It helps to clear her head of the frustration with training and the Riverdale memories trickling through her carefully constructed barriers. 

She walks by one of those trendy cate cafes and pauses, seeing the smiles on patrons’ faces and the gleaming espresso machine and thinks, _why not._ Some fluff-induced serotonin could be a good idea, and some caffeine while she’s at it. 

Betty pays the exorbitant entry fee and overpriced coffee—it’s all for a good cause, she knows, they are adopting out rescues, but _still_ —and plops down on a cushion near some wrestling kittens. 

Several of them use her as a jungle gym and Betty finds herself more relaxed than she has in months. In a little cave bed, a puff of cream and brown fur blinks curiously at her and Betty picks up a toy and waves it playfully. 

The cat leaps toward her, ignoring the toy altogether to rub her face on Betty’s hand and then curls up in her lap, purring. 

For the remainder of her hour, Betty sips her coffee and strokes the cat’s soft fur. One of the employees looks over, pleased, when Betty practically has to un-velcro the cat to stand. 

“She’s usually a real skittish one,” he tells her. “It’s been hard to get anyone to consider adopting her when she won’t come out of a hiding spot.” He looks at Betty, hopeful and a bit insistent. 

Half an hour later, Betty has signed paperwork and is on her way to pick up a TripCar to take Toffee home. 

Once she heard the cat’s name, Betty folded in an instant. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


The first time Betty gives in to Glenn’s flirting, it’s… fine. They go for drinks at a stupidly bougie place near Quantico and he buys her an old fashioned—and then a second one because Betty finds his quasi-charm a bit more effective once she starts drinking. It’s fine when he puts his hand high on her thigh and not unpleasant when he presses her up against his fancy sedan and kisses her neck before whispering, _Your place or mine?_

Betty’s apartment is closer and she needs this outlet in a way she can’t pinpoint and the sooner she gets it, the better. 

But then she thinks of her embarrassingly bare walls, save for a corkboard of college polaroids and the photos from high school she’s pinned up out of nostalgia—or masochism, she can’t be sure which; the bookshelf full of her childhood Tracy True collection that he will definitely scoff at; her cozy bed that she loves to sprawl across, except for the one corner at the foot where Toffee spends most of her day; the possibly over-the-top collection of cute toys for one cat that sleeps more often than not. 

Betty’s apartment is her bubble, her safe space away from rule-following and suits and, sometimes, her memories that surface during the day when she looks at case files and wishes she were in a dusty room smelling of newsprint instead. 

So she makes up a roommate and they go to his place instead. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


For the entirety of their _whatever this is,_ Glenn is never invited over. Betty occasionally mentions her cat, but he never asks for her name. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


One of her first thoughts once she’s coherent in the hospital, and learns how long she was kept hostage, is _oh my god is Toffee okay, if cats don’t eat for more than a couple days they’ll die, please tell me she’s okay._

Because fuck the trauma and the broken ribs and the raw skin on her wrists and ankles, she thinks. If another cat dies because of her, Betty may just die herself. 

Glenn is there, his presence more of an irritation than a reassurance, and tells her that they informed her building super of her _unexpected work trip_ and asked if he could empty Betty’s fridge and feed the cat. 

Betty is a bit touched that he remembered until he says that Amy, their boss’s administrative assistant, saw the photo of Toffee on her desk and made those calls herself. 

She clicks her morphine button a few times after that and wishes the scratchy hospital blanket were soft fur as she drifts into drugged, hazy sleep. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The first night Betty is home from the hospital, she knows it’ll be terrible sleep. She refused the opioid painkillers offered at her discharge, not wanting to start a habit she might not break—if her Adderall phase is anything to go by, Oxy is a terrible idea. 

When even pushing open her front door is agony, Betty regrets the choice.

Toffee is upset about her unceremonious abandonment and only appears when Betty cracks a can of tuna. She happily accepts her bribery snack before disappearing into one of her cave beds. 

When Betty wakes up screaming at 1:32am, though, Toffee jumps softly up onto the bed and curls into her side until she is able to fall asleep again. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


She comes across his book entirely by accident; she is grabbing lunch for the team and sees a stack of books by Forsythe Pendleton Jones III in the window of a bookshop she passes and her knees buckle.

It’s named _The Outcast,_ and despite her nausea, Betty has to giggle. Him and his homages. 

She reads the inside flap, expecting to see a version of Jason’s murder. Instead she’s hit with details of a love story— _theirs_. Terrified and holding her breath, Betty flips to the dedication page. 

_For you._

She has to dash into the bathroom to throw up. 

Later that night, she lays on the couch, and opens the book with shaking hands. Toffee purrs in her sleep at Betty’s toes next to her and stays there while Betty is up until 4am reading and crying. 

Toffee wakes up a few times and squints, apparently confused as to why the lights are still on and why Betty hasn’t carried her to her nighttime spot next to her pillow. 

Betty sobs into her soft fur. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_I’m meeting friends for Thai._

Technically Toffee is a friend. 

Betty tries not to think about how pathetic this is, but Glenn is beginning—well, _continuing_ —to drive her nuts and quite frankly, the annoyance now outweighs the satisfaction of a decent fuck. 

That said, he’s still wrapped around her finger and says he’ll watch Toffee while she goes home for a few days. She’s not a huge fan of letting him into her home bubble, let alone giving him a key but it’ll have to do. 

(Betty tucks Jughead’s book, pages dog-eared and notes scribbled in the margins, deep into the back of her closet because she absolutely doesn’t put it past Glenn to get nosy while there alone.) 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


When it becomes abundantly clear she isn’t leaving Riverdale anytime soon, Betty requests the leave of absence (which was immediately granted, with relief from her boss, it seemed) and frets about Toffee. One week is far too long for Glenn to have been in her apartment every day and he voices that fact too—it seems they are at least on the same page that things have run their course and the sex is not worth the pretense.

_Fine by me_ , she thinks, booking a sitter from Grover.com and telling Glen to leave the key with the super. 

At least Betty knows she won’t be judged by Tiffany F. for requesting photos of Toffee. 

She needs the smiles and comforting vibes that come from seeing her puffball pose for a treat, or twisted into a shrimp position in her bed. 

Things are… hard, being back home. Her mother seems desperate for company, Archie is being Archie, Veronica is even more intimidating than ever, and Jughead—well, Jughead stares at a point just past her left ear when he speaks to her, but only when he has to.

They’re seeing a lot of each other; they _all_ are between helping out at the school and attempting repairs on 9 out every 10 buildings in town. But once Betty begins digging into those odd disappearances, like a moth to flame, Jughead wants to investigate as well. 

She’d hoped it might make things easier, but each interaction leaves her more emotionally drained than the previous, and she isn’t proud of how long she stares at the photos of Toffee while trying to fall asleep. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


On week four in Riverdale, Betty is on a razor’s edge, nearly crying every time Jughead gives her the cold shoulder. There is also the worry over the state of her bank account while on unpaid leave, buying clothes as she needs them, paying rent for a place she won’t be staying in for who knows how long, _and_ weekly pet sitter fees, so she prays to every deity that Toffee won’t kill her in her sleep for sticking her in a carrier and driving her six hours to Riverdale.

It will be worth it, even if it’s six hours of yowling; Betty craves the unwavering, unconditional love from her pet, needs it to stop feeling like gum on the bottom of certain people’s shoes. 

(The kind of love she once had from the man who only ever glares at her now.) 

Jughead blinks in surprise when she mentions to the group at large—but, really, only to him, always only to him—that she needs to swing back to DC for clothes and her computer and Toffee, and Toni, ever the pot-stirrer, makes a crack about Betty’s appetite still matching Jughead’s after all these years if she’s driving that far for candy. 

“My cat,” she clarifies. 

Toni smirks, “I know.” 

Betty’s face burns; this is the first time this entire month that any of them have overtly mentioned her past with Jughead. She wonders if this change is significant—if Toni now knows something she doesn’t, if Jughead has talked to her about _them—_ but Betty stops herself from going down that path. If she is going to survive this indefinite commitment to being in Riverdale with her emotional stability intact, Betty _has_ to stay far away from that path altogether.

Jughead, who still won’t meet her eye or speak to her in more than single, short sentences, follows her out to Alice’s car, which was finally upgraded to a hatchback from this decade. 

“Drive safe, okay?” His hands are shoved in his pockets while he speaks more to the driver’s side tires than to her. 

But if that’s as much of an olive branch she’s getting right now, Betty will happily take it. 

“Thanks, Jug,” she murmurs. 

She _definitely_ doesn’t think about the quiet concern in his voice and his gaze for the entire six hour drive. Not at all. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Toffee doesn’t kill Betty in her sleep for the drive, but she _is_ pissed.

Betty cried alongside Toffee for much of the drive, the confused hurt and anger emanating from her pet slicing through her like knives. When Betty opens the carrier door in the front hall, Toffee streaks out and hides for four days. She has to leave food dishes in a few different spots, unable to find her. 

Even when she stops hiding, Toffee is decidedly standoffish and begrudges the fact that her favorite bed is now on Betty’s window seat. 

(Betty hopes that proximity will wear her down. There is only so much direct anger she can handle before losing it.)

Alice has gracefully slipped back into her hostess role and their large group often meets in the Cooper living room to debrief and plan and—in Betty and Jughead’s case, with only a slight buffer of Toni’s presence in their conversations—investigate. 

Toffee emerges, curious, to inspect the crowd but her mood remains much the same; she hisses at Betty, Kevin, Veronica, and Fangs, swipes at Archie and Sweet Pea (making everybody in the living room laugh), but treats Toni with the weird reverence all animals do for pregnant women. 

Most surprising is how Toffee winds her way through Jughead’s legs and rolls onto her side to play with the loose laces of his boots. 

Jughead startles and crouches down from his position on the couch. “Hey,” he scolds, without much heart, “Stop that.” 

“She likes string a lot,” Betty says with a grimace. “I’m sorry.” When her voice cracks on _sorry_ everybody is kind enough to avert their eyes either to their notes or to the very entertained Toffee. 

Jughead unties one boot altogether and dangles its shoelace above her head, pulling it just out of reach when she raises a paw to bat it. Toffee chirps and chases it around. With Jughead so engrossed in playing, Betty watches him intently and sees a softness in his face that reminds her—finally—of the boy she loved so desperately. 

Even if the man she loves so desperately again wears a permanent scowl won’t give her the time of day. 

The rest of the group has moved on but Jughead senses her stare and looks up. He grants her a half smile before resuming his game with Toffee. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


That night, Toffee leaps onto Betty’s bed with a chirp and settles in on the far corner, facing away from her. 

She’ll take it. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Betty is the one to give in during a particularly heated moment, crossing the distance between them because she cannot last another moment without feeling his lips on hers again. 

But he freezes, then pushes her back. 

The pure shock on his face sends Betty running. 

Toni and Archie are in the kitchen when she bursts through the front door in tears and both of them call after her when she scoops Toffee up from Toni’s ever-decreasing lap space and slams the door to her childhood bedroom to cry. 

It only serves to make things worse. The room is haunted by Jughead’s presence; the window he climbed through, the walls he would press her up against, the bed they shared before it all went to hell. Before she _sent it_ all to hell. 

Toffee scratches at the door for a few moments, clearly wanting to return to her watchpost for Toni’s baby, but eventually rubs her face into Betty’s side and burrows into her sweater. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Toffee scurries away from her spot in the sunbeam on the kitchen floor when Betty and Jughead finally have it out. The shouting wakes her from a deep sleep and she glares reproachfully from the stairs as she makes her exit, as though scolding them for being disruptive. 

Jughead pauses momentarily in his tirade to glance at the cat. “I don’t think she likes me very much.” 

Betty laughs in shock. “She doesn’t like loud noises, Jug. She’s in your lap more than anybody else’s when you’re here.” 

He looks at her shrewdly. “My mistake, must be her owner. Too busy paying attention to a ginger puppy.” 

Their yelling resumes, because Betty does, in fact, like him very much. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_I still love you. I’ll always love you._

_I’ll always love you, too._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


There are more things they need to talk about before falling into bed together again, but once things are patched enough, it’s too difficult to keep their hands off each other. 

The way Jughead pushes her up against the doorframe sends her seven years back, the need so electrifying and all-encompassing that Betty’s bra is off and flung across the room before she notices Toffee’s slow blinks from the window seat. 

“Hold on,” she giggles, extricating herself from Jughead’s limbs and earning herself a pout. Betty presses her discarded shirt to her breasts and shoos Toffee out of the room, now earning herself a disgruntled meow. 

It is frenzied and Betty’s skin burns under his touch and his mouth. There are the small differences that makes this reconnection more exciting; Jughead has fully grown into his height, muscles redistributed and the jut of his hipbones cutting into her thighs; Betty gained her own training muscle, but some of her added pounds went straight to her chest and Jughead seems mesmerized by the new way they sway and heave as she rolls her hips over his; Betty’s extended time alone gave her an intimate knowledge of what she needs to finish once, twice, three times before Jughead’s new endurance gives out. 

“Fuck,” Jughead sighs while he plays with the ends of her hair. ( _I like it long,_ he had murmured after realizing he could wrap it fully around his palm to tug.)

Betty smiles into his bare chest, bashful. “No kidding.” 

When their heaving breathing subsides, Toffee’s annoyance can be heard as she paws under the door. 

Jughead snorts. “Is she always like this?” 

Betty sits up sharply. In the back of her mind, she knows it is an innocuous question, but it feels pointed—wanting to know how often Betty’s cat tries to get through the bedroom door when she has a _guest_. It’s not his business, not when she knows he was a serial monogamist during the years out of each other’s lives, nor when she overheard him sheepishly telling Toni about the one night stand that conned him into reading her manuscript. 

(Especially not when Betty heard his disgruntled excuse of _She was blonde and said she loved my book and I had just been dumped, what was I supposed to do?)_

“No,” she snaps. “I don’t make a habit of kicking my cat out of the room for a fuck. I got laid plenty, thanks for asking, but I never liked anybody enough to let them into my home.” 

He looks alarmed, clearly unsure if she is about to bolt; Betty isn’t entirely sure either. 

“Betts,” he says quietly. A lump grows in her throat and she stares up at the ceiling because the last thing she needs is for him to see her cry. “You know that’s not what I meant. Don’t create an excuse to run away.” He sits up and Betty feels his thumb stroke light circles on the side of her thigh. “I can go, it’s fine.” 

It isn’t until he is dressed and nearly out the door, Toffee brushing past him into the room, that Betty finds her voice again. 

“Stay,” she calls after him. “Or you could stay.” The echoed phrasing doesn’t escape either of them, accidental as it may have been. 

When his boots are kicked onto the floor again, Toffee leaves the bed to attack the laces. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


To her credit, Toffee now knows to make herself scarce if Betty and Jughead enter the bedroom together. 

They fuck. A lot. Her bedroom; the bathroom of the Wyrm; the hall bathroom shower; very nearly the supply closet at the high school until they realize Jughead doesn’t have a condom.

But they still don’t _talk._

He has Betty bent over the side of her bed, fingers tight on her ribs, when he jostles a cat toy on the floor that squeaks and he stumbles back. “What the fuck,” he gasps. 

Betty whines at the loss of his heat, feeling empty. Unashamed, she wiggles her ass and arches her back. “Jug, come _on.”_

Jughead crouches down to retrieve the toy—an electric blue mouse—but not before dragging his tongue down her center. He throws the offending object across the room before moving back to her. Betty bites her lip to keep from moaning too loudly.

“That,” he groans, “was a freakishly accurate mouse noise. A _dying_ mouse noise.” 

Betty wrinkles her nose. “Ew. Definitely getting rid of it now.” 

Jughead tugs on her messy ponytail and thrusts. “Good.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They agree to spend nights together again, after they eventually painted themselves into a corner and forced themselves to have the seven-year-overdue conversation. On the third occasion Jughead sleeps over, Betty wakes them both up screaming and thrashing. 

Jughead had woken up first, scared shitless, until realizing the noise came from her. He’d gently shaken her awake. “Betty, you’re okay, you’re safe.” 

She sobs into his shirt, shaking, and Toffee joins them from her perch on the window seat. 

(Jughead’s presence in the bed means her usual spot is taken.)

Toffee jumps over Jughead’s side to stand between them and rub her face into Betty’s, her fur knocking away some of the tears. 

With her purring form tight next to her chest, and under the safety of the dark room, Betty tells Jughead about her two weeks with TBK. 

Then it’s Jughead’s tears that Toffee ends up brushing away. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“I thought she liked me,” Jughead whines when Toffee nips at his hand while they’re getting into bed. 

“You’re in her spot, that’s all,” Betty tells him. “I’ll let you feed her the canned food tomorrow and you’ll be her new best friend.” 

Jughead reaches out to let Toffee nose against his hand; she’s still not thrilled but never turns down ear scritches. “Thanks for letting me steal your spot, Toff.” He says it in a whisper, like really does want Toffee to hear it more than Betty. 

It’s not until Betty wakes up for the fourth time that night—after laying awake theorizing for ages beyond when Jughead starts snoring—that she realizes the precise reason for poor sleep. 

It isn’t just that they’re two relatively tall adults sharing a full-sized bed when Betty is used to a queen all to herself—it’s that Betty misses the comforting presence of Toffee sleeping next to her pillow. 

Jughead, in her bed once more, and for good this time she knows, is _also_ a comforting presence, but it feels different in a way she can’t articulate. 

“Is it weird,” Betty asks him in the bleary morning light, “that I can’t sleep because I miss the cat that is still sleeping 10 feet away from me?” 

He brushes some hair away from her eyes and kisses her forehead. “Not at all. You had your own bubble with her and now it’s burst. And that’s just _one_ of the many insane things going on in your life right now.” Jughead tries to imitate the noise Betty makes to call Toffee over. 

When he fails, Betty giggles and pats the bed in the right way for Toffee to leap up in mere seconds. She spends a few moments attacking both their feet under the covers before rolling over to give Betty the face that says _I’m going to keep doing this until you feed me._

“For what it’s worth,” Betty whispers, stroking Toffee’s ears and not quite ready to look Jughead in the eye as she speaks. “I’m really happy you burst the bubble.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The group has gathered for a rare, work-free meal, when Toffee begins to act strangely. 

“Ouch,” Toni exclaims, shocked at the bite to her ankle but incapable of reaching down to swat away Toffee. “What the hell, Miss Princess?” 

Betty frowns and gets up to extricate Toffee from under the table. It’s unsuccessful, Toffee hissing at Betty and nipping at Toni again. 

Jughead figures it out first. “Are you feeling okay, Toni? Your due date is soon, right?” 

Toni purses her mouth. “I’m _fine,_ Jones. I have another 8 days.” 

Toffee bites at her feet again and Toni curses. Betty looks up curiously from her spot on the floor, still trying to drag the cat away from her. “Should we maybe…” Toni glares at her, but Betty straightens her spine to carry on. “We should at least get you home early, Toni. In Toffee’s defense, you are basically asleep sitting up.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Fangs calls at midnight, saying that Toni started having contractions and they’re taking her to the hospital. 

With his face smashed into the pillow, Jughead mumble-yells, “Tell her _I told you so!”_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They solve the case; they always do. 

But they only survive it by the skin of their teeth. 

They end up on the floor—not a cat toy in sight—the sheer relief of being alive fueling their movement and inability to relocate when they trip and land there.

The intensity of Jughead’s gaze burns her up from the inside out and the words come out before she pauses to consider their ramifications. “I love you, Jughead,” Betty breathes out. He cradles her face in one palm, using the other to balance his weight over her, and strokes his thumb over her cheek. He is brushing away tears she didn’t know were spilling over, and she sees them matched in his own eyes, even feels a few of them drop onto her nose and collarbone. 

“I love you.” Jughead ghosts his lips against hers and drags them down her jaw and neck, whispering it all the while. _I love you_ into the hollow of her throat, _I love you_ to the top of her breasts when he pulls away her blouse, _I love you_ brushed over each nipple and back up, _I love you_ licked onto her collarbone. “I have always loved you, Betty Cooper,” he whispers into her ear before taking her mouth with his and letting his body speak instead. 

“I will always love you.” Betty’s words come out on a moan and then she scrabbles for his belt and zipper, chanting it like a prayer. _I love you I love you I love you_ in time with his pulse under her tongue and his hands against the ridges of her spine and each raise of their hips into each other. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_I still love you. I’ll always love you._

_I’ll always love you, too._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


When TBK is caught, Betty has the breakdown that was a long time coming. 

Jughead holds her while she weeps and shakes, and he only feels comfortable leaving her alone—to get food and water, to silence her phone, to tell Alice to send Veronica and Toni home—if Toffee is there in his place. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


All in the same week, Betty quits the FBI and buys a house. 

(Only at his insistence is Jughead not on the mortgage. “Trust me, Betts,” he sighed. “You _don’t_ want my credit score fucking with yours right now.”)

Betty’s first purchase for the house is a king-sized bed.

Jughead’s first purchase is a fancy cat tree for Toffee, so she can birdwatch through the first floor windows. 

Everyone is very enthusiastic to christen the purchases once all the boxes are unloaded. 

Betty and Jughead’s method is, by far, the more energetic. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Toffee cries about being shut out of the bathroom while Betty takes one, and then four, pregnancy tests.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I would love to hear what you thought!


End file.
